At Home, Sunday Afternoon

Her black hair bounces as she dances through discarded papers, kicking the Metro section into the corner where she houses a baby doll with bright clear eyes. She was once such a baby housed in a faraway house, before us. Her doll's hair bounces, too, when our child walks her, step by step, a marionette without strings attached, each foot in turn awkwardly carrying the weight of the child's body, too, pressing into the soft red carpet, soft color and soft texture, a cushion for both doll and child, as they waver across the room, rebalance their steps and then plop down. 'O, wow! she walks fast, Daddy. Look out. Here she comes! ' I look at them and laugh because I'm expected to. There are strings attached now, binding me and doll and daughter. And I notice tiny lines crease the carpet, bent fibers looking white, where she dragged herself and doll along the only available road toward family.